


Dreamt of in Your Philosophy

by shersmol



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Emotional abusive parents mention, Fluff, I dont feel confident at all about this fic, If you like it please tell me so i become reinspired, John saves his life, Johns flirtatious and sweet, M/M, No dfp in sight for either of them, Or it would be slowburn if it was complete, Redbeard - Freeform, Sherlocks a mess and i love him, So i dont know if it will get finished, Teenlock, Unilock, WIP, drowning tw, pet death tw, redbeards a dog, slowburn, suicide attempt tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9651776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shersmol/pseuds/shersmol
Summary: Sherlock is staying in Sussex with his family the summer before he goes to university. John lives in Sussex with his sister Harry and his terrible parents, hoping to go to med school but lacking the funds. After the death of Redbeard, Sherlock takes an illconsidered jump off of a seaside cliff. Yall already know what's up. John saves him of course. When they meet again a friendship sparks, and maybe something more if I get around to it





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "There are more things in heaven and earth Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." -hamlet
> 
> This wip is on hold for now. If you guys like it and really want to see it finished, please comment and tell me! I'll finish it if people actually like it ! Sorry for the lack of indentations/formatting? I'm doing this on my phone it's a bit tricky.
> 
> HUGE THANK YOU TO MY BETA HAYLEY!!!! @theatre-fangirl-tea on tumblr, hayley you've been an absolute lifesaver and are so fantastic at editing! Sorry I seem to have lost steam for now on this, I've really appreciated what you've done for this piece!! Cannot thank you enough

The ocean air whipped across the cliff, swirling with more force due to the altitude. 10 meters up, a 30 foot tall precipice that hung over a mass of churning blue green waves. A thin dusting of grass still clung to the rock, twisting and turning as the breezes shifted over it. A smell of salt was heavy in the air, and gulls could be heard crying in the distance. The Sussex coastline was wildly beautiful, in it’s own way.

Sherlock shuffled his hands deeper into his jean pockets, glaring down at the water. The early morning sun was blazing, tinting his dark curls with lighter brown and forcing him to squint. A tall, thin figure, clad in a worn blue hoodie, he looked strangely as if he belonged in the watery setting. Sherlock found himself shivering. Cold, he thought irrationally. 26° Celsius and I'm still bloody cold. Wind chill, increased velocity, doesn't account for temperature reduction, what's wrong with me why doesn't my brain ever shut up why doesn't Mycroft ever shut up-- the image of his brother flashed before him again, mocking. “You're far too involved Sherlock, control yourself, control.” Mycroft had stood right there in their ridiculous, overpriced kitchen and said that to him. The thought made him laugh bitterly. Control was the last thing he had. You might as well ask the waves to halt their pounding of the rocks. 

Two weeks ago this wouldn't have mattered, he would have had Redbeard, would have had someone, even if that someone was a dog. A laughing, breathing, living, intelligent, red bundle of a dog that was unbelievably important to him. Why hadn't they told him they were going to put him down? Why? A ridiculous, misjudged attempt to spare his feelings had instead cheated him out of any chance to say goodbye. And then there was Mycroft. Mycroft with his superiority, his high flown speeches, had actually had the gall to lecture Sherlock for being too involved? It was unbelievable. He should have known better, he should have known Sherlock well enough to convince his parents not to do this behind his back. Rubbish brother indeed. Still scowling, he kicked a pebble over the edge, watching it sail down into the water. 

He just wanted this all to stop, to stop feeling and thinking and listening and seeing. The grief and anger filling him did not drown out his chattering thoughts, but tangled with them, confusing him and clouding out the mere notion of peace of mind. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus, to reach his mind palace. Nothing. Nothing worked without Redbeard. Irrelevant. Everything is irrelevant and impossible. My brain is a newton's cradle with a thousand threads, a ceaselessly moving rubix cube, a tangled mess with no purpose. He took a deep breath, taking in the scent of the sea. And I'm alone. The strength of this last realization washed over him like a poisonous river. Alone was what he had, but today, alone was not enough. And maybe it never would be. Never enough to wash away the pain. Nothing ever was. I'm sorry Mycroft.

Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Sherlock stepped right to the edge of the cliff. He leaned out into open air and jumped. The sunlight and spray rose up to meet him, and Sherlock Holmes hurtled to his death. 

The impact of the water shocked him, sending bright pain through his arm and back as the waves closed over his head. He gasped, swallowing water immediately. Grit and sand swirling around him and through him, the water pounding into his body like a hammer. Struggling instinctively, he rose upward. The sparkling light of the sun was visible for a moment, turning the tip of the oncoming wave turquoise, before that wave crashed into him and pulled him under. The current was relentless, dragging him downward headfirst. Panic sparked in his nerves and lungs. All he could taste, feel, and breathe was salt, and he continued to sink lower under the crushing weight of the ocean. Pressure and pain pushed out every thought, every sense. His lungs were on fire. Strength pulled away from him like the tide, carrying his life with it, and his vision began to fade. Sinking, falling, failing. Into darkness.

Dimly, through a burning haze of consciousness, Sherlock felt a vice-like grip close around him. The arms pressed into his chest and pulled him upward, and he could feel the water pushing against his rise. Within a moment they broke the surface, sending a gust of much needed air towards him, but he couldn't breath effectively past the water in his lungs. The sunlight dazzled his eyes, sending the world into a blur of movement and color through which he could discern nothing definite. Blue and gold blended in a kaleidoscope in front of him. The grip holding him continued to move forward, swimming steadily and keeping his head above water. He closed his eyes, focussing all his energy on staying conscious through the burning suffocation filling his brain.

His knees hit sand abruptly as they reached the shallows, his rescuer struggling to keep him upright now that the water’s buoyancy was absent. They didn't give up however, and the water soon gave way to warm sand against his back as they pulled him ashore. He lay back, without the vitality even to try to choke out the water and breathe. One sharp pressure under his sternum fixed that however, and he spit out a frankly ridiculous amount of foul water. The same arm that had pulled him out a few moments ago now supported him sitting up as he vomited out the rest, retching and gagging. Air, wonderful fresh air came back into his body. He couldn't get enough of it, taking in great shuddering breaths that brought some clarity back to his mind and relief to his limbs. Sherlock collapsed back onto the sand, blinking away drops of saltwater, trying to clear his vision. He stared up into a pair of indigo eyes, creased with worry. 

“Are you alright? Can you hear me?” the boy asked. He had sandy blond hair that was dripping over his face, and he looked young, maybe slightly older than Sherlock, but no older than 20.

“Yea, I'm fine, ‘bin worse” Sherlock found himself replying, his voice a hoarse croak. He quirked a smile at the stupidity of his own answer. Fine? Really? The boy let out a bemused chuckle.

"Well ok, that's good. My sister’s called an ambulance, they’ll be here soon.”

“Oh no--” Sherlock tried to push himself upright, but immediately let out a gasp of pain and allowed the boy to lower him back down. Clearly he was not “fine”. He lay back and tried to focus on breathing and not on the growing pain in his shoulder, or on what Mycroft was going to say. Definitely not on what Mycroft was going to say. Breathe in, breathe out. His hair, drenched and heavy with water, was trailing annoyingly all over his face. 

“You jumped?” the question pulled his attention back to the boy still sitting by him. The boy who had just saved his life. “Sorry, I mean, it's not something I should be asking-”

“Yes, I jumped.” Sherlock said, his voice still quiet and rough from the water. He was in no position to think of a plausible lie, and he wasn't even sure he wanted to. He could hear the wail of approaching sirens. The world was still tilting vaguely under his gaze, but he could tell the boy was looking at him with an odd expression. 

“I'm glad you're alright,”. 

Sherlock glanced sharply at him, surprised to hear something as ordinary as that sound so sincere. He was still staring at the boy, puzzled, when the paramedics approached and lifted him onto a stretcher. Feeling the press of canvas under him, he closed his eyes, and they carried him into the waiting ambulance. He could still see a pair of dark blue eyes when he did.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock walked out of the hospital front doors, blinking into the bright afternoon sunlight. He’d been under care for thirty tedious hours, and probably would have been there longer if the doctors had had their way. His left arm was in a sling. The water had fractured the bone in his shoulder, but luckily nothing worse than that, and he had somehow convinced the nurses that he had tripped and fallen off the cliff. He honestly hadn't thought they would believe such a transparent lie. His brother had come and picked him up from the hospital, waiting through the night as he was tended to.

Mycroft himself had been unusually quiet, and Sherlock was waiting for the inevitable storm to break. His brother’s car was a sleek silver machine with an immaculate interior, and Sherlock thought it was perfectly detestable. He swung the passenger door open and got in, settling down on the shiny synthetic interior.

He glanced at Mycroft in the driver’s seat. He was frowning slightly, his mouth a tight line across his round face, and hands holding the steering wheel in a grip that turned his knuckles pale. His ginger hair was slightly disarrayed, which was really very unusual for Mycroft; evidence of a night spent in the waiting room. He’s still in dress shoes and a tie, must have been at a business meeting when they called him, Sherlock thought. The silence was tangible, the only noise was the rumble of the engine as they sped down the road.

“You didn't trip.” Mycroft said, his voice cold. The statement came as no surprise really, Sherlock knew Mycroft was smart enough to know what had really happened.

“Are you going to tell our parents?” Sherlock asked, beginning to fiddle nervously with the fabric of his sling. He hoped his voice didn't betray that he cared about the answer.

Mycroft sighed. “Are you?” Sherlock didn't reply. Another eternity seemed to pass. Mycroft wordlessly handed him a water bottle, which Sherlock held between his knees as he carefully unscrewed it and took a sip with his one good hand. Mycroft and his water bottles. He waters me like I'm some sort of plant. 

“No, I'm not going to tell them.” Mycroft said finally.

Sherlock let out a breath in relief. He didn't think he could bear having his parents know about this. Mycroft had long since eclipsed them in a parental role, something Sherlock pretended not to notice. His insufferable big brother breathing down his neck was bad enough without adding two worrying adults. They wouldn't know what to do or how to help.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

They drove on in silence for only a few minutes, as Mycroft made a turn. His elder brother wasn’t all that old, still in his twenties, but, as Sherlock often thought, trying to micromanage the world didn't work wonders for health. Gray hairs already touched at the edges of his temples. The air between them was growing tenser by the minute, the waves of disapproval manifesting themselves in the tight muscles of his brother’s hand. He steeled himself for the hammer to fall.

“Sherlock, how could you let it get this bad?” Mycroft's tone now had a distinct edge to it, frustration and anger pushing out caution.

“I didn't let anything happen Mycroft, you would know, you were there the whole time after all, always watching, trying to get me to be more like you, to be more stable!” Sherlock said, his voice rising, angry at Mycroft's implication. 

“If stable keeps you alive and safe then of course I'm trying to give you that Sherlock, anything to keep you safe! I just-” Mycroft shut his mouth tight, breathing deeply to calm himself. Sherlock was leaning away from him now, head pressed against the window as he tried to hide his face. He was far too afraid that it was showing something like shame. 

“You try to make me into a bloody machine, and maybe it would be better if I was, but I'm not and I never will be,” he spat, resenting the way his voice cracked over the words. He felt like he was seven years old again, trying to justify to the world why he was different, why he couldn't conform.

“Is this about Redbeard? Sherlock how-”

“I don't know Mycroft, is it?!” He became suddenly aware that he was shouting.

“I was trying to help you Sherlock, to help you the only way I bloody well know how!”

“And a fantastic job you did there, really” Sherlock shot back, voice acidic with sarcasm.

“What am I supposed to do, follow you around to ensure you don't trip off any more cliffs-” Mycroft was yelling right back.

“Maybe, you could shut up and treat me like a human being, did that ever occur to you?!” Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. He started to tap his fingers on the steering wheel, a nervous, tense rhythm. They curved into the lane with their house on it. Almost there. 

“Alright Sherlock, just one question, do you-” Mycroft paused and stared fixedly at the road. “Do you regret jumping?” 

It wasn't a question Sherlock had expected. My brother just asked me if I want to live?

“Yes.” He said, his voice firm. Still staring out the window, he added “It was the biggest mistake I’ve made to date, and you know exactly how many I've made, brother mine.” 

Mycroft stared at him hard for a moment. “Can you promise me to get help when you need it? To accept my help?” 

Sherlock gripped the armrest hard as he nodded his agreement. I promise. Never again. 

“Then...I promise to try harder. To listen to you, I mean.” Mycroft's voice was quiet, uncertain. Emotional honesty was really not his forte. 

“Good.” Sherlock said, unsure sure what else to say. He swallowed, seeing the house loom up as they approached. He noticed how tightly he had been clenching his hand, and tried to relax it. The space between them was uneasy now, uncertain how to continue after exposing themselves like this. How to put back up the walls that encircled both of them. Sherlock gritted his teeth and focused on smudging up Mycroft’s clean windows, wiping his fingers over them thoughtfully. Messing up his brother’s stuff was familiar territory, and he truly needed some familiarity right now.

The empty driveway reminded him that the house was unoccupied. Mum and Dad are still away for work. How could I forget that? I must be slipping. He looked over at his brother, who had finally regained his usual icy composure and was parking the car.

They pulled up to the smoothly paved driveway, and Sherlock swung his door open and got out. The house was rented for the summer, but they had been here for two months, since March, apparently to get some sort of a vacation before Sherlock went to college and Mycroft moved out. The place had two levels, but the rooms were numerous and far too posh for Sherlock’s taste. It did have a nice view though. The colours of the yard were a welcome contrast to the stark white of the hospital, burnt sienna and lemon yellow tinted leaves everywhere. He trailed his gaze over the pathway, kicking a pebble out of the way, breathing deeply now that he was out of the charged air in the car. The birds were kicking up a racket in the yard, and he bent down to look at a bee crawling into a flower. Pollen dusted its tiny legs, and Sherlock let his tensions drift away as he catalogued its movements. Looking around at the rose bushes lining the path, he could feel something almost reminiscent of a good mood creeping up on him. What's that about? Preposterous. I've just been in hospital for godssake.

Whatever the reason for his returning good humor, he felt that he simply couldn't let Mycroft go without some sort of jibe. It wouldn't do to leave things like this, with all this sentiment in the air. That wasn’t how they operated.

“Hey Mycroft!” He called, causing him to pause in unlocking the door. Smudges on his fingers, he should’ve gotten rid of those. Not even a good deduction. Mycroft raised one eyebrow quizzically. 

“I’ve been, shall we say, observing,” he said, starting to grin as he joined his brother at the front door “and it's clear to me that you've been eating Aero bars again. How’s the diet going?”

“Oh shut up!” Mycroft swished into the house, headed no doubt to wash his hands. Sherlock chuckled and headed up the stairs two at a time. He pushed into his bedroom, shutting the door carefully behind him, and surveying it to see if anything had been disturbed while he was gone. A quick scan revealed everything in its former place; a chaotic mess. His bed stood in the right hand corner, covered with a light blue blanket, with a large window directly across from the entrance. The closet was set into the left wall, his favorite jacket hung on the outside of the door. The only visible sign of organization was the bookcase, which had all of its volumes arranged by color. Stepping carefully around the books strewn all over the floor, he flopped down onto his bed. 

The quilt was soft under him, and he lay there for a few minutes, staring at nothing. Enjoying the quiet. The rustling of the trees called waves to mind, and he felt he was back on the beach. He closed his eyes, remembering the fall, the terrible sensation of drowning, the feeling of being overpowered by the water. His heartbeat quickened involuntarily, racing as if to escape the limits of his ribcage. It’s really not a surprise that the greatest danger I ever ended up in was from myself, is it? Sherlock ran a hand over his face, trying to calm himself and steady his breathing. He had promised that idiotic brother of his to do better, to never let that happen again. 

He was watching a bug climb up his window when his phone started vibrating from its place on his dresser. He had left it at home when he last left the house, a decision that no doubt saved the device. It's probably Greg. He scooped up the phone and looked at the screen, seeing that it was indeed Greg, his facetime icon flashing brightly. Usually he would ignore it, text back later, but right now he felt he could use some company. He swiped accept quickly, and Greg Lestrade’s face came into view on the small screen.

“Sherlock! Where’ve you been, I've been texting you!” The other teenagers exasperated face came into view, a boy with pale, almost gray hair that was kept short. 

“I've been busy Graham, obviously,” he said lazily, smiling as Greg pulled an exasperated face.

“It's Greg, and you're on vacation, you can't be bus- wait, what happened to your arm?” 

“Oh, um, better just ask Mycroft about that, he’ll be more than happy to explain,” he said quickly. “It's only a fracture anyway. Your room is a mess Gavin, I can see it in the background you know.”

“Well I know yours is probably worse,” he said defensively. Sherlock watched him shoving stuff off camera to clear a space. He had known Greg for almost five years now, met him in school, and although the other boy didn't quite understand him, he seemed to like Sherlock well enough anyway. And that was a rare enough occurrence to be sure.

“I see you got into that university you've been harping on about for ages,” he said. Mail on the bedroom table, he never keeps letters in his room unless they're important, also note self-satisfied grin.

“Yes, actually I did, I suppose you deduced that?”

“Yup,” Sherlock said, lying down on his mattress again and holding the phone aloft.

“Well, my mum went a bit crazy,she was so pleased, it was pretty mortifying,” Greg said, smiling despite himself.

“I'm surprised she didn't die of shock.”

“Hey!” Greg indignantly tried to swat the camera with a pillow. He dropped the phone instead, and it was a few moments before he came back into view. “Anyway, how is it up at Sussex? Still boring?”

“Incredibly so.”

“Yeah well, I can't exactly imagine you tanning on a beach anywhere,” Greg said reflectively. “You've probably had your head in a book since you got there, haven't you.

“Absolutely not, Geoff,” Sherlock said, visibly flipping through the pages of the book near his head. It was a manual on beekeeping.

“You're insufferable, you know that?” Greg said, laughing.

“So I've been told.”

“Hope you haven't been deducing people up there in Sussex. It is a vacation after all, you should consider taking a break from pissing people off.”

“Interesting suggestion, but I'm afraid I have managed to ‘piss off’ at least one person this week.”

Greg raised his eyebrows in mock surprise “Really? It was Mycroft wasn't it.”

“Lucky guess.”

“Yeah, well, I've gotta go, my Dad’s calling me. Answer your texts next time! I mean it!” 

“Bye!” Sherlock said, waving with faux enthusiasm. The screen went dark, and Sherlock swung his legs off the bed, getting up with a one-armed stretch. He could tell that the sling was going to be incredibly annoying already.

His laundry basket was tipped over on the floor, spilling clothes all over the place. I’ve got to fix my sock index, he thought idly. Bending down and gathering up some of the offending articles, he uncovered a photograph lying on the floor. It was a snapshot of his dog, torn from the wall in one of his worse moods. Sherlock carefully placed it back on his dresser, brushing aside other clutter. Redbeard. The ache in his heart at the thought of his friend was familiar now. He sighed and passed a hand through his hair, feeling salt and sand in it still. Well that, at least, I can fix. He headed off to a much needed shower, to try and wash away the mess that was the last few days. If that was possible.


	3. Chapter 3

It was almost five o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, and Penman’s had the kind of hush that only a bookstore can create. The afternoon sunlight angled in through large bay windows, cutting between shelves to land on the faded blue carpet. A fairly large shop, Penman’s had chairs everywhere, letting it function as more of a community center than a store. John slid another novel into a crisp plastic bag, handing it to a customer. His shift was almost over, and his trained cashier-smile was truly starting to slip. Too much time spent on his feet was showing in the stiffness throughout his legs, and he shifted his weight back and forth to try and ease it. This customer (a distracted elderly man with a bunch of magazines to purchase) marked the end of the current line, and John began to stare into space, letting his eyes unfocus. This job is unbelievably boring, he thought. It had been five days since his little rescue escapade, and nothing even remotely exciting had happened since then. 

“Hang in there!” a friendly voice said cheerily, giving him a pat on the shoulder. Turning, he caught sight of the smiling girl behind him, her ponytail bobbing slightly. Molly was the only other worker as young as him in the store, and she was always incredibly positive. He huffed out a laugh, rubbing his hand over his eyes to wake himself up. He couldn't afford to zone out quite yet. She went back to her register, two places down, brushing her fingers on the counter as she went. John bounced his foot against the counter meditatively, looking out the window once more. He was really missing having more people his age around; most of his school friends were heading off to college, leaving him in the dust. Leaving him to sit around at Mrs. Hudson’s and obsess over his life. It was torture. John had always been inclined towards adventure, action, and without school or sports to occupy him he felt himself getting cabin fever. And reliving the mildly interesting things that did happen to him, like rescuing strange teenagers. God, I need a life. 

“Oh, John, that reminds me, can you tell Harry to give me a call? I still don't have her new number, and I want to talk to her,” Molly said.

“Sure, I’ll tell her, she's been pretty busy with work lately, so that-” he never finished his sentence however, getting distracted by a sudden movement in his peripheral vision.

Quite unexpectedly, a young man appeared out of nowhere, coming up to the register with a kind of nervous speed and energy that woke John right up. Tall and thin, the teen had a mass of black curls that hung about sharp cheekbones, one of which had a small scrape on it. His face looked young, and he was, well, beautiful, but his eyes held an unusually guarded expression, as if he had gotten too used to expecting abuse from people. The look was surprising, hitting John before anything else; it was like a challenge to all of society to do its worst. His left arm was in a sling, and he was wearing a black jacket that looked expensive. John started in sudden recognition. An image of a coughing, sodden figure with pale blue eyes flashed before him. This is the kid from the beach! The recognition was apparently mutual, because the other boy’s brilliant, pale eyes flicked up to John’s face and widened in surprise. They didn't say anything for a moment, letting the silence between them thicken into something almost stiflingly awkward. John licked his lips.

“Um, hi!” The boy said. He spoke in an unexpected baritone, blinking a couple of times fast. John smiled in spite of himself. 

“Hi!” John said, rather lost as to what to talk about. He was a confident guy, always had been, and very little phased him, but this teenager with his sparkling eyes and sharp cupid’s bow was sucking out all of his tools for conversation. Don't stare. Staring is rude, even if it’s at beautiful people. “Er, I’m surprised you're out of hospital so soon,” he finally said.

“Well, they did want to keep me longer but I can be persuasive,” the boy flashed an odd, one sided smile. Did he just smirk? 

“So, fracture?” He asked, gesturing to the sling.

“What?” The teen seemed to still be studying John; he certainly didn’t seem to find staring to be rude. “Oh that, yes it's a shoulder fracture-”

At that moment John caught sight of a growing line behind his young drowning victim. Shit. He quickly took the book from the boy’s hand.

“Sorry, there's other people waiting, I should've realized. Um, cash, right?” He said, trying to ignore the light blue gaze that was still centered on him. This boy was proving to be incredibly distracting.

“Right, of course,” the tall figure slid across a wad of bills and stood tapping his fingers as John printed the receipt.

“Thanks!” the boy said, taking the purchased book and moving away from the counter, vanishing swiftly among the shelves. John stared at his retreating form a moment too long, then trained his focus back on his work. Smile, scan item, collect payment, hand over the receipt, repeat. He has curly hair. Didn't notice when he was drenched in salt water. He accidentally handed over the wrong receipt, and had to apologize for giving the woman in front of him the store copy. Stupid. Get it together Watson. He rung up two more customers without incident. A girl with three Charles Dickens novels, a man with a CD and all seven Harry Potters. Smile, scan item, collect payment, hand over the receipt, repeat. I've never seen eyes like his…

Twenty absent minded minutes later, John’s shift ended, and he stepped away from the register in relief. Waving a quick goodbye to Molly, he grabbed his backpack, unclipping his nametag and striding away from the desk. He set a clear line to the exit, already thinking about what he was going to do for the rest of the day. He glanced at his phone, checking it for texts. The screen showed dully, with the brightness lowered to save battery, and the notifications were blank. Harry’s still at work then. 

“Are you heading to meet Harry?”

John started in surprise. Glancing up quickly, he saw the tall teenager from earlier, sitting at a small table with his feet propped up unceremoniously on the chair to his left. There were three books spread out in front of him, along with a coffee cup. He seemed to have made himself quite at home, and he was looking at John in a way that made him feel like he was being x-rayed. John could feel something that felt dangerously like a blush rising to his face.

“...no I'm not headed to meet Harry, how did you-” 

“You were taking your phone out of your pocket, checking for calls or texts, that indicates the possibility of a meeting right after work,” he said. He hastily removed his feet from the second chair, rose, and held his hand out. “I'm Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson” John said, slowly shaking the proffered hand. He found himself squaring his shoulders back, tilting his chin to meet Sherlock’s scrutiny. This guy looks like some sort of supermodel. He hesitated a moment, then pulled out a chair and sat down, slinging his backpack underneath it. Sherlock carelessly shoved the mess on the table aside to clear room for him. John placed his phone face down in front of him and looked curiously at the boy across from him. The kid he had pulled from the water had waltzed back into his life in the most jarring, confusing, and attractive way, and John was waiting for some sort of an explanation. Sherlock, however, seemed to be suddenly interested in his empty coffee cup, glancing at John cautiously.

“Er, earlier, when you, um, you know-” he paused for a moment, cleared his throat, then started over, “Thank you. For saving my life, that is. From drowning.” 

John smiled. “Anytime- I mean, hopefully you won't need me to save you any time, but-” he ran a hand through his hair, suddenly embarrassed. Sherlock simply gave that one sided smile of his again, turning to look across the room. John followed his gaze and saw a couple sitting a few tables away. The man seemed about thirty, wearing a tan jacket, and he looked as if he wasn't really paying attention to the woman across from him. 

“So what are you doing here? Staring at that man?” John asked, looking at Sherlock. After the awkward thanks, he had apparently put up his guard again, because a closed, remote look was once again on his face. What is the deal with this guy? 

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I'm watching to see if he’ll leave to go on his date with the woman he’s having an affair with. His wife is watching him like a hawk though, so his chances are slim.” Sherlock looked highly amused by the situation, resting his chin on his good hand. Everything he did seemed somehow more intense, more vivid than when anyone else did it. It was like watching something outside of the rules of everyday life, and John loved it. He shook himself. Stop staring.

“So.. you’re waiting for some drama?” John asked, confused.

“Nothing better to do,” Sherlock said, shrugging with his one good shoulder. “People are tedious and stupid most of the time, but I'm bored.”

“Well that's a bit rude- wait how do you know he’s having an affair?” John asked incredulously.

“Observing. You can tell almost everything about a person if you pay attention,” Sherlock said, a glint coming into his eyes. “Practically no one really pays attention.”

“Really?” John said, skeptically raising one eyebrow at this blatant arrogance. “What can you tell about me then?” 

Sherlock looked delighted to have been asked. Turning to face John completely, he steepled his fingers under his chin, fixing John with a laser-like blue gaze. John felt pinned in place by it.

“Your parents are abusive, and you have an older sister named Harry who you are protective over, and who drinks coffee. You plan to go to medical school, and you were at the top of your class, but you doubt you’ll have the funds to continue to university. You’re saving to move out but you won't leave until your sister can leave as well. You swim regularly, are left handed, vegetarian, and have a middle name that you dislike. I might be off on some things, but that's just at a glance.”

John became suddenly aware that his mouth was hanging open, and he shut it quickly. Sherlock was watching him carefully; he seemed to be awaiting a verdict of some sort. John was an extremely private person, having always had secrets to keep, and he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, much less anything else. And yet this unbelievable boy had just turned up, large as life, and read his whole life story. He took a deep breath. “How on earth could you tell all of that?” 

Sherlock seemed braced for the question. “Your backpack, it’s clearly packed with only necessary supplies, and you carry it around like it's a habit, which is suggestive of a toxic living situation that you might need to leave in a hurry. It’s labelled ‘Harry Watson’ in a girl's handwriting, so it's clearly a hand-me-down from an older sister, and when I mentioned her name your posture became defensive. There's dog eared brochures for various medical universities on the side of your backpack, but you obviously can't pick one or you wouldn't read them so obsessively. Your job is well paying enough to move out, but your shoes are in bad need of replacement, so you must be still saving money for your sister. Shall I go on?” He gestured while he spoke, speaking fast and pointing to items as he mentioned them. This guy is amazing. But possibly mad, John thought. Sherlock was now watching him with slightly narrowed eyes, somehow reminiscent of a kid waiting to get the results of an exam back.

John slowly started to smile. “That… was incredible.”

Sherlock glanced at him in surprise. “You think so?”

“Of course!”

The smile that lit up Sherlock’s face probably shouldn't have been endearing, but it was. The closed, guarded look in his eyes receded slightly, and something softer began to show through. John was definitely grinning now. The feeling that smile gave him was headier than anything he could remember experiencing in a long time. 

“People don't usually say that?” he asked.

“No, actually, ‘piss off’ is the typical response,” Sherlock said, and he started to laugh. John joined him, chuckling quietly, and trying not to think about how many people had told Sherlock to ‘piss off’ simply for being brilliant. 

“How about you explain the rest of your observations over dinner? I'm starving.”

“It’s not even six o’clock.”

John shrugged. “So?”

“Good point,” Sherlock said. He suddenly waved his hand to get John’s attention, “wait, look!”

At that moment the man sitting across the room got up suddenly. He was saying something to his wife, who looked greatly agitated. “Really Helen, I'm so sorry-- no I've just got to go,” they heard him say, clutching his phone as he swiftly headed toward the exit, his tan jacket flapping behind him. He grabbed his bag in a hurry and pushed the door open with his shoulder, leaving his wife behind, standing by the table. She was muttering angrily under her breath.

John and Sherlock looked at each other, dark blue eyes staring into light, and burst into laughter. 

\--

Two hours later, and after a lot of pizza, deductions, and talking, John was home. He pushed his sneakers off and placed them carefully near the door, heading straight upstairs. Harry was emerging from her room, rubbing her eyes and yawning, and he almost ran into her.

“Hey, hey! What are you doing charging around the house, startling nap-befuddled sisters?” She said accusingly.

“Sorry!” He said, ducking into his bedroom. Harry followed. John’s room didn’t appear to have much stuff in it, and most of it was stowed away in the closet, leaving the central space free. He had a small desk by the window, which was covered with school papers that he hadn't gotten rid of, and a beanbag chair lay in the corner. Harry seized this and sank down into it, pulling out her nail polish kit. John sat down his bed, tucking his legs under him. The duvet was dark purple and heavy, and it settled around him in deep wrinkles and craters of cloth. He leaned over and flicked on the bedside lamp, sending warm golden light all over the room.

“So, where were you all evening?” Harry asked, painting a shiny layer of crimson on her left thumbnail. 

“Well…” John said, trying to find out where to begin. “I met the bloke that I rescued from drowning last week.”

“And that took three hours?” Harry raised her eyebrows questioningly. 

“No, I mean,” he struggled with what to say. He’s fascinating? The most interesting person I've ever met? He’s bloody gorgeous? “It turns out, he’s a bit of a genius. We got to talking, and then we went and got dinner at Angelo’s.” 

“A genius? Seriously?”

“Yeah, I'm not kidding. He could tell everything about me in one look, just by observing tiny things, like smudges on your thumb or something, it was amazing- why are you looking at me like that?” Harry was smiling in an extremely smug-big-sister way, like she knew something he didn't. 

“Nothing, nothing, continue,” She said, returning her attention to her nails. “How old is he? He looked young last time I saw him. But then, he was gasping for breath at the time.”

John eyed her suspiciously, but decided to ignore whatever it was she wasn't telling him. “He’s 19, and he's staying here for the summer.” 

“Did you like him? I'm guessing you got on fairly well.”

John pulled his laundry basket over to him, taking out a shirt and starting to fold it. “Yeah, he was strange but… charming. A bit arrogant, and definitely pompous and rude, but oddly likeable. I think he would like you, you should meet him.”

“Are you going to see him tomorrow?” 

John thought for a moment. “Maybe,” he said, depositing the pile of shirts into his dresser. “He might have something else to do.”

She was now waving her hands back and forth, trying to get the nails to dry. “Don't sell yourself short John, I'm sure he found you just as...compelling as you seem to have found him.” 

“His family looks like they’re rich, I'm sure they have much better things to do than hang out with cashiers,” John said, trying not to show how much that idea bothered him. Would he care about that? 

“Oh please, don't get some sort of a peasant-complex John, it's not like he's royalty,” she scoffed.

“Still-”

“Nope, I’m the big sister, I know these things. I hope you two are very happy together,” she smirked, carefully screwing the cap back on the polish and getting up.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” She laughed, sweeping out of the room and leaving John alone with his thoughts. It had been quite a day. 

The house was quiet, his parents out, and the hush that lay over everything seemed at odds with the stirring excitement in his heart. He took off his jacket, an old maroon rugby garment that he still liked wearing, and hung it on a peg, taking his phone out of the pocket. He went over to the window and looked out. The sun was almost set, deep purple and blue filling the sky, rolling up against the last streaks of pink that the light cast up. John's room had a view of a strip of trees, and the darkness made them into a silhouette. He smiled slightly at the colours. The phone in his hand buzzed, and he tapped in the passcode quickly, seeing a text pop up.

[From: Sherlock]

Tell Harry I say hi

-SH

John typed back a response.

[To: Sherlock] 

And how do you know I've told her about you?

The screen glowed again.

[From: Sherlock]

Observing 

-SH

He laughed, typing a reply after a moment.

[To: Sherlock]

Nope, lucky guess

[From: Sherlock] 

I never guess

-SH

[To: Sherlock]

Yeah you do

[From Sherlock]

Fine

-SH

[To: Sherlock]

Sometimes

-SH

[To: Sherlock]

Gnight Sherlock

[From: Sherlock] 

Goodnight John

-SH

John stared at the row of unnecessary little monogrammed texts, shaking his head and smiling. He knew he was probably being ridiculous, grinning over some boy he had just met like some gooey eyed kid, but he really didn't care. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt like this. What have I gotten myself into? He lay the phone down on the side table, seeing the glow recede as it turned off, and watched the sun descend into the soft cover of night. Whatever Sherlock Holmes brought into his path, John felt certain that it would change him. And he was rather looking forward to it.


	4. Chapter 4

“Sherlock! Get down here!”

Sherlock groaned at the sound of Mycroft’s voice ringing out from downstairs, cutting into the piece of his room like a sharp bell. He had managed to hole himself up in his bedroom for most of the morning, but the summons were getting difficult to ignore. He had been avoiding the rest of the family more than usual during the past few days. After Redbeard. He no longer blamed them for it exactly, but if they expected him to be social or something than they were sorely mistaken. Is this what grief feels like? Loneliness more likely. Brainwork helped somewhat. Which was why he was currently looking for anything crime-related in the local news.

Bright sunlight sliced through the window, warming his back and making his arm uncomfortably warm in the sling. Sitting on the floor, he scooted slightly out of the patch of warmth, leaning back against his bed. He squinted at the phone in his hand, scrolling through news app. It was all boring crimes unfortunately. Dull. There were far more interesting cases back in London; this little seaside town was practically saintly. Nothing but a petty burglary and some car accidents. Not even a kidnapping. Closing out of the tab, he glanced at the time. 12:34 pm. He was pushing it; a few more minutes and Mycroft would probably come up to fetch him. Tedious.

“Sherlock!”

He sighed, getting to his feet finally, and heading out of his bedroom. The upstairs hallway was wide and carpeted, with two grand mirrors hanging in it above identical fake centrepieces. He glanced in one of them, ruffling his hair slightly to regain the shape. His arm might be useless, his mood lackluster, but Sherlock Holmes would never let his haircare routine suffer for it. He started to go down the stairs, but went slowly, bringing his steps down heavily to let Mycroft know that he was coming with great reluctance. While he made his way painstakingly downstairs, he typed out a text message.

[To: Graham] 

Your boyfriend won't leave me alone  
-SH

The answering text came immediately, as expected. Greg was bound to be bored back in London.

[From: Graham]

Mycroft is NOT my boyfriend!! I had a crush on him four years ago will you ever shut up about it

Sherlock smirked, pausing for a moment on the stairs to reply.

[To: Graham]

He’s trying to make me come  
downstairs and mingle with the family.

-SH  
[From: Graham]

Serves you right

Stuffing his phone into his pocket with an exasperated sigh, Sherlock hopped down the last two stairs and went into the kitchen. Their kitchen has gleaming white marble counters and a state-of-the-art-oven that was barely used, which fit the overall picture of useless grandeur. The light through the small window lit up the left side of the counter like new snow, but left the rest of the room fairly dim. His mum was at the table, setting out cups of coffee for Mycroft and dad. 

His parents had gotten back from their business trip a few days ago, worried about Sherlock’s injury of course, and proceeded to fuss about him far more than he would have liked. A nervous, active woman, Mrs. Holmes was always moving, her short brown hair held back by a headband or pins. Mycroft took after her most, whereas Sherlock looked like his father, with the same narrow, bright eyes. The Holmes’ father was sitting in his chair in the living room, and the muffled sounds of a tv documentary could be heard. You would never guess that Mr. Holmes held a prominent position in his law firm; he always projected an air of absolute indolence and calm. 

“Ah, there you are little brother. It took you long enough,” Mycroft said, moving his laptop aside to make room for Sherlock at the table. Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing, pulling out a chair. He picked an apple from the centerpiece and started munching on it, waiting for an acceptable moment to leave.

“Sherlock dear, did you remember to take your medicine?” his mother asked, starting to scrub at the dishes. “I told Myc to remind you-”

She was cut off by simultaneous exclamations from her sons:

“Mycroft. Please, you named me Mycroft, not Myc,” Mycroft said.

“Yes of course I remembered, I do not need Mycroft reminding me,” Sherlock grumbled.

Mrs. Holmes just shook her head resignedly, placing the clean dish to the side of the sink. 

“Sherlock, I don't want you lounging around the house today, go out somewhere nice in town, maybe hang out with your brother for a change?” she said with an encouraging smile. Sherlock and Mycroft merely looked at each other, identical expressions of mild disgust painted on their faces. Sherlock snorted out a laugh at the sight; at least him and Mycroft had mutual animosity in common; it certainly simplified things. Mycroft sighed and gathered his laptop into his bag.

“I won't seek to burden my brother with my company Mummy, he’s quite capable of amusing himself.”

“Well yes, but it's not good to just stay holed up in a house doing nothing-” she said. Sherlock frowned slightly.

“Studying interesting things is hardly doing nothing,” he said. It’s not my fault none of you find pollinators interesting. Or that I have lost my only companion and am trying to forget about it. But of course, I should just go out and have “fun.”

She rolled her eyes slightly, obviously unconvinced. Eye rolling was the one habit Sherlock had picked up from his mother, although he liked to think that he had improved upon it. She pulled out her phone, the sharp ding of a text ringing clearly. Business partner or book publisher, Sherlock would have guessed, with that speed of response. Mrs. Holmes started to type out a message while glancing at Sherlock with a small, absentminded smile. “Yes dear, but just go out for a change?”

Sherlock pulled out his phone as well, mirroring her actions precisely. “Fine Mummy, I’ll get out of the house today.” 

[To: John]

Busy today?

-SH

Sherlock held his breath as he waited for the reply. Initiating a meeting was definitely not something he usually did, and he fully expected John Watson to turn him down. The meeting of yesterday was still fresh in his mind; John was… inexplicable. A blonde, stocky teenager with secrets built up in his posture and eyes that looked ten kilometers deep. His smiles had made Sherlock feel like the sun had been lit inside of him, and that was certainly unusual. Not to mention the fact that he actually had wanted to spend time with Sherlock? It didn't add up, none of it. But at least if John was no longer interested in his company he could say he would busy and leave it at that. A fairly painless rejection. Or so he hoped.

[From: John] 

Nothing that couldn't be improved by some company :-)

Sherlock smiled triumphantly, stowing his phone back in his pocket. Yes!

“I’ll go out near five o’clock,” he said to his mother. She nodded her head, pleased that her strange, unpredictable son was doing something typical for once, and he could see her attention was already drifting elsewhere. Sherlock smiled tightly, feeling once more that his care had been handed over to Mycroft, a wordless exchange of responsibility. I'm like a troublesome parcel that no one wants to hold for long. 

Mycroft was looking at Sherlock with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “And just who are you meeting?” he said, his voice lowered and directed only at Sherlock. 

“Who says I'm meeting anyone?” 

“Please, little brother, I'm not a moron-”

“Really?” Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise and waving his hand theatrically. “I never would have guessed it!” 

“Just tell me!”

“None of your business.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, obviously annoyed. Sherlock knew he would find out about John eventually, probably quite soon, but he didn't feel like sharing the information until he had to. Especially if John stopped talking to him, as he was likely to do. It was statistically unlikely for people to tolerate him for long, according to his observations. He barely tolerated himself for long. Mycroft should keep his nose out of some things.

“The television is malfunctioning again darling, if you could take a look at that when you have a minute,” Sherlock’s father said, strolling into the kitchen unconcernedly. Mr. Holmes was more physically affectionate than his wife, but absolutely unable to engage with his sons on an intellectual level; all he knew was law. Sherlock had long ago found this out, and he still considered it an accurate description, if a bit harsh. His dad passed by the table and ruffled Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock made a small huff of annoyance.

“What are we planning to do today?” Mr. Holmes said, leaning against the counter to address his wife.

“Well, Mycroft is going to get some work done, I have my dental appointment at 3:15, and Sherlock is going into town at around five,” his mother rattled off. She loved planning everything; it was almost as bad as his brother.

“Oh,” his dad said reflectively, as if he had just been imparted some profound observation. Then he turned to Sherlock.

“Be sure to watch that shoulder of yours, don't strain it and don't go near any high places kiddo-”

“Yes Dad, I'm not actually helpless you know,” he said. “I’ll be perfectly fine.” 

His dad merely looked at him with a fond sort of smile, still seeing the little boy who had run around for hours, scraping his knees and elbows. He placed a kiss on Mrs. Holmes cheek, gathering up an apple from the table and heading back out into the living room. 

Sherlock turned to find Mycroft’s gaze on him, grey eyes drilling into him. It was obviously killing him to have Sherlock go meet someone that Mycroft didn’t know about. Unapproved company. Sherlock rolled his eyes and settled for staring out the window. Both of his parents were fussing and worrying about him more than usual, but they were simply a diluted form of Mycroft; his brother was the queen of overprotective.

Sherlock got up, stretching like a lanky cat, and headed back upstairs to the peace of his bedroom. The quiet sound of his mother’s business-phone-call voice trailed after him, settling in the downstairs floor like wisps of fog. He closed his bedroom door with a satisfying click, settling down in front of his microscope. The idle hours would have to be filled with molecules and grains of sand, the scientific information sweeping away his annoyances and focussing his mind into something simple. Well, simpler.

\---

Four and a half hours later, Sherlock was walking toward Penman’s, swinging his arm slightly with nervous energy. This sling can't be off soon enough, it's driving me crazy. The urge to move and use both his arms was distracting and irksome, like a constant nervous tick. The paved streets under him were gray and worn with years of tourism, and a few people were out window shopping in the warm weather. Figures in sun hats and sandals drifted across the street, all intent on their own purpose. The sunlight was more subdued now, but the heat had risen again with a vengeance, and Sherlock had to go with a T-shirt instead of his usual hoodie. Stubby ornamental trees planted every few feet were dropping some of their leaves from the dehydration, and they crunched underfoot with a satisfying sound. He went out of his way to step on a few, meandering around the path. 

Sherlock let his mind wander back to last night, back to John. They had talked, and laughed, and in general had an utterly confusing time. He still remembered when he had met Greg, and he tried to compare the two meetings; he had been surprised then, too. Sherlock’s world up until then had been comprised of Mycroft and a sea of unfriendly faces, Mycroft and every other child who would turn from him in fear or in anger. He had gotten used to it, used to the isolation and even to the bullying, getting through school as one would a long war. And that was why he was surprised by the unexpected presence of a friend in Greg Lestrade. 

The boy had stumbled into him one day, a panicked and woefully unprepared student, asking Sherlock for last-minute assistance before his biology exam. After that, Greg had just seemed to assume they were friends, and a sort of partnership developed that meant far more to Sherlock than he let on. Even geniuses got lonely, despite what people seemed to think. Greg Lestrade was kind and funny, and he wasn't disgusted by Sherlock’s intellect like everyone else was, but Sherlock could still feel that that was nothing like what he had experienced the night before. 

No one had ever looked at him the way John Watson looked at him. As if he wanted to know Sherlock, to really understand him. Sherlock had tried to keep his guard up as much as possible, absolutely certain that this would not last, but John had really looked pleased in his company? Had found him funny instead of insulting? Smart instead of freakish? This doesn't make sense. He had waited for the other shoe to fall, for John to suddenly leave, and to be honest, he was still waiting. This mysterious blond boy seemed to have wormed his way past so many of Sherlock’s carefully constructed walls, and they had only just met. He would have to be more careful. Something about that boy’s dark eyes, his brilliant smile, they made him forget everything he ever thought he knew. Nothing about it was safe, but he could feel himself continuing anyway, like someone rushing into a bonfire despite how it might burn him. 

He had stared at John in that bookstore yesterday, a strange, golden, confusing creature that had chosen to sit next to him, and Sherlock deduced him, fully expecting for him to leave in disgust, at the very least to be unnerved by it. But he didn’t. He didn’t leave. He called me incredible. The echoes of that statement were still ringing in his head hours later. The boy who had saved his life had overnight become a fascination. And it took a lot to fascinate Sherlock.

And now he was going to see him again, see just how far this handsome blonde enigma would tolerate him. It was definitely risky to pursue John’s company, because why would he ever want to continue talking to me, but Sherlock never played things safe. Life was boring that way. That was why he currently found his feet carrying him ever closer to the bookstore. The nerves that were gathering in him were unlike anything he had ever experienced, and it scared him. Sherlock Holmes did not get butterflies. Sherlock Holmes was not starstruck. Absolutely not. He took a few deep breaths and tried to fix this. Yes, the boy had blue eyes that seemed to glow with warmth. Yes, he had a beautiful smile, and strong, muscled arms, and blond hair that he brushed his hand through absentmindedly, but we’re not going to think about that. NO. I'm not some swoony primary schooler. I can handle anything he throws at me. I can handle this. 

 

The store loomed up in front of him, shiny glass windows reflecting him clearly, and he carefully eased the door open with his good shoulder. The blast of air conditioning was a welcome shift in temperature, and he glanced around the shop. More people were here than last time, milling around the shelves and sitting at the tables. He paused a moment in the doorway, deducing the people around him. Teacher with a cat and two small children. Unhappy marriage. Art major with secret boyfriend. Steady job as a lifeguard. The observations came to mind unbidden, but he let them all settle away like sand at the bottom of his mind; they were unimportant. Sherlock headed towards the front of the store, where he knew John would be working.

The lull of conversation was obvious but not terribly loud, and he wandered between the bookcases, taking the long way towards the checkout desk. Trailing his fingers over the books on the shelf, he felt their cloth and plastic bindings slide smoothly past him. That was an old habit whenever he went to the library or bookstore, something he started in primary school that still served to calm him. Rounding the corner finally, he turned toward the register.

And then he saw John Watson, and any thoughts of handling it went rocketing out of his head. John was giving customers their items, smiling politely at them as he did so. His fake smile wasn't particularly convincing, and Sherlock’s face twitched with a suppressed grin. He considered himself an expert in false joviality; clearly John could use some acting lessons. The blonde was wearing a dark green flannel button down shirt, his name tag pinned neatly on top. Even while servicing buyers, John’s shoulders were held straight with an unconscious attitude of strength, making him look anything but submissive and mild mannered. His short height was packed with energy, and he looked wholly out of place in the service industry. Sherlock’s eyes traced where the flannel shirt fitted the boy’s torso, outlining muscle built up from years of activity, most likely rugby. John’s gaze was calm, assured, but not arrogant, and he would have looked perfectly ordinary to most people. But I'm not most people. Sherlock could see a depth there, a carefully contained level of emotion written in every easygoing smile, and he was mesmerized. The charm that he had seen yesterday, the mystery, none of it had lessened over time; if anything, Sherlock was more captivated now than he had been before. Dammit. 

John caught sight of him, and Sherlock made a quick attempt to stop ogling the blonde teenager. John wasn't exactly helping however, as he flashed a brilliant grin and waved at Sherlock to come over. Like a moth to a flame, that’s me.

“Hey! You're a bit early, I don't get off for another fifteen minutes,” John said, rolling up on his toes slightly. He was obviously anxious to leave work already, drumming his fingers on the linoleum counter.

“I can wait at a table,” Sherlock said, a little too fast. “Until you finish, that is.”

John smiled again. “Sure.” His glance lingered a moment, or maybe Sherlock imagined it, but whatever it was made him feel strangely like he was melting inside. He turned abruptly and headed to a table, sitting so that John was only partly in his field of vision. He took out his phone and pretended to swipe through it, sneaking glances around the bookcase every now and then.

Before he was there long enough to get bored, John was finished working, and he headed straight towards Sherlock’s table.

“Ready?” John asked, hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulder and gesturing to the door.

Standing up hastily, Sherlock fell into step beside him, and they walked out into the street. His longer strides kept time with John’s shorter ones, and they headed left, Sherlock following John’s lead. He watched him out of the corner of his eyes, cataloguing how he walked, the way he held his legs and arm apart and swung them slightly, the way the sun was catching in golden hair and dark eyes. Sherlock bit his lip and stared determinedly away. Stop it. You’re going to ruin this. 

“So, where are we going?” Sherlock asked, clearing his throat and looking back at his companion.

“A house near here, owned by a Mrs. Hudson. I have to return something she lent me,” John looked at him cautiously, one pale eyebrow raised, as if he wasn’t quite sure what Sherlock would do with the information. “She lets me use her roof whenever I want; it's flat and has seats and stuff,” he shrugged. “If you want, we can sit there for a while.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side a moment, considering. Sitting on an unknown woman’s roof for an indefinite amount of time. Unappealing. But with John? That was entirely different. Nothing involving this boy seemed to be boring, strangely enough. Sherlock nodded his assent.

“Ok.”

John turned slightly as they walked, looking at Sherlock’s shoulder. “How’s the sling? You have to keep it on for six weeks right?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s insufferable to only have one arm.” 

“Yes, well, I can imagine how dreadful it is for you to be slowed down,” John chuckled. Sherlock smiled too, in spite of himself. This boy had a way of acting like he had known Sherlock for years, like no one knew him better. And Sherlock was dangerously close to agreeing with that. 

They were approaching a house now, a medium sized building made out of red brick. An old oak tree filled the front yard space, bending its branches up and over the roof, partially obscuring the house with its dense green foliage. The garden was messy but thriving, with squirrels scampering through thick patches of ivy, old rose bushes with massive thorns clinging to the fence, and bright dandelions clustered all along the walk. Loud birdsong came from all sides as they went up the path. The building was unusually designed for an English home, with a flat roof that was probably terrible for the winter months. The owner must have spent some time in a tropical area to have requested such a thing. Sherlock liked the look of it immediately.

John stepped forward and rang the bell, and Sherlock heard the muffled sound of it coming from within the house. He rocked back and forward on his toes, slightly tense at the prospect of meeting a strange adult. What if she’s horrible? 

Waiting on the step, he found himself staring at John again, the shorter boy standing by his side with his hands shoved loosely in his pockets, backpack in toe. He couldn't quite tell what color John’s eyes were; yesterday they had looked grey, but today they had the dark blue of a softened night sky. Long pale eyelashes blinked around them, and suddenly they flicked over to Sherlock.

“What?” John’s expression was open and curious, obviously unaware why anyone would be looking at him. How can he be unaware? Doesn’t everyone stare at him? Or am I just insane?

Sherlock frowned, looking away quickly. “Nothing.” 

The door popped open suddenly, revealing a small woman with short brown hair held back by clips. She had a clever, flighty look about her, like a sparrow or a robin. Her dress sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and she looked in her late forties. Seeing John, she smiled brightly, and merely glanced at Sherlock as if there was nothing at all unusual about his additional presence.

“Hello boys, come on in, make yourselves at home!” she said, stepping aside as they came through the door. She pulled John towards her affectionately, placing a kiss on his cheek. The blond boy squirmed, clearly embarrassed, but the gentle smile he directed towards her betrayed him. He adores her. Sherlock felt himself warming to this woman.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Sherlock,” John declared, directing his gentle smile right at him. Sherlock tried his absolute best not to look like a deer in the headlights, blinking stupidly at the other teenager. He wasn't sure if he succeeded. 

Mrs. Hudson let out a happy exclamation, snatching up Sherlock’s hand in a strong grip. “Oh! That's wonderful dear, John finally bringing a friend over! I’m Mrs. Hudson.” 

Sherlock glanced at John sharply as Mrs. Hudson said “friend,” checking to see how he would react. To his surprise however, John simply smiled wider and continued looking between Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, apparently unbothered by her assumption. Are we friends? 

“I’ve brought back that book you gave me Mrs. Hudson, hopefully you didn’t miss it too much,” John said, handing her a paperback cookbook. The cover said “Easy Meals,” Sherlock noted.

“Oh thank you dear, it was so sweet of you to remember you know, I wouldn’t have remembered a little thing like that,” she said, taking the book and laying it on the hall table. “I’m glad you tried some of the recipes, though,” she turned back to Sherlock and addressed him in a conspiratorial tone. “It’s silly how often he forgets to eat you know, you should make sure he does.” 

Sherlock shrugged, smiling at John’s embarrassed grimace. “I barely eat at all Mrs. Hudson, so I’m not sure I’m the best person for that job.”

The short woman swatted his arm with her washcloth in mock anger. “Then you’ll make quite a pair, won’t you! I can’t follow you around feeding you all the time you know.” John laughed, Mrs. Hudson winked at Sherlock, and he couldn't help smiling as well.

“Mind if we use your rooftop?” John asked, starting to move further into the house. 

“Of course dear, no problem at all, just make yourselves at home!” she chirped, bustling back into the kitchen. Sherlock followed John slowly, taking a look around him as he went. 

The inside of the house was clean and bright, with odd figurines on the shelves and tables. The closest one was a ceramic cow holding a guitar. The hall they were in was carpeted with a navy blue pattern, but it branched off into a hardwood living room. He glanced curiously into the kitchen that Mrs. Hudson had gone into, seeing a honey colored counter and small mahogany table. The space was slightly cramped, but the whole place had a welcoming feeling, down to the marijuana-patterned kitchen towel. Sunlight streamed in from the windows, highlighting the yellows in the wallpaper and counter.

Mrs. Hudson was removing a pot from the lower cabinet, but it dropped with a loud clang. She flinched back noticeably at the noise, then knelt down to pick it back up. The deduction slid into place; domestic violence victim. It suddenly made a world of sense why she was so kind to John, offering him her home when his wasn’t safe. He looked back at the boy standing on the bottom stair, waiting for Sherlock to follow, and he felt a rush of gratitude towards Mrs. Hudson. He could not quite tell why, but giving John Watson a place where he felt safe and happy seemed…well, important. Vitally so.

Sherlock followed John up the stairs, a curving set of steps that were worn on the left side. The banister was smooth dark wood, and it curled up into a spiral staircase. The lighting was dim as they went further up, but he could tell that John’s shoulders were sloped into a slightly less combative posture. Having him one step above removed their height difference, and Sherlock was uncomfortably aware of how John’s head was level with his. Why would I care about that. That would be silly. He frowned and shook his head, trying to focus on something else, like counting the the steady rhythm of their steps. One, two, three, four...

Finally, they stepped out onto the roof and into a blaze of sunlight. The late afternoon sent bright, long beams across the cement surface, lighting up both of them where they stood. There was a small table with a faded chessboard pattern on it to his right, and the whole roof was closed in by a knee height wall. Old crates were scattered around, positioned as impromptu seats. A bucket full of garden tools stood near the door, obviously rarely used. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, blinking away the sunspots and looking around him.

Sherlock felt his companion’s gaze on him, and turned to see John standing with the sun burnishing his hair to bright gold. He was squinting in the light, ridiculously long eyelashes curving up and down, and he had slate blue eyes trained directly on Sherlock. The taller boy blinked rapidly. He opened his mouth to say something, but for once his mind was completely unfocused. 

“Um,” he frowned slightly, looking down at the boy who was currently reducing his faculties to mush. John simply looked mildly confused, obviously unaware that he was currently in a brilliant halo. That he was a brilliant halo. Say something, anything, he thought furiously. But all that came out was “Did you know Mrs. Hudson smokes weed?”

As soon as that ludicrous statement left his mouth Sherlock could have kicked himself. Idiot. Marijuana? Seriously? You're going to bring that up now? He felt himself turning red and grimacing at his own statement, but was distracted by John bursting into laughter. The blond boy’s face cracked into a grin as he giggled, and Sherlock couldn't help smiling too. Maybe his question hadn't been so stupid after all; the sound of John’s laughter was the best thing he had heard in weeks. 

“Yes, of course I know she smokes marijuana, I should have realized you would deduce that but oh my god- your face-” John covered his face with his hands, shaking his head until his giggling fit subsided. Still smiling, he walked over to a crate and sat down, dropping his backpack by his feet. Sherlock followed suit, sitting on the other side of the little table. He rested his elbow and sling on the weathered surface, noting the drawers for chess pieces on each side. John was smirking slightly, and Sherlock was trying not to look directly at him. It seemed like a fairly good plan overall.

“It would have really been a disaster if you hadn’t known,” Sherlock said, smiling at the imagined scenario in which he suddenly informed John of Mrs. Hudson’s herbal habits.

“Yes, yes it would have, you’re lucky I already know certain things about Mrs. Hudson, including that she uses marijuana for herbal soothers,” John said, grinning. “Such as, she used to be an exotic dancer. Did you manage to deduce that?”

Sherlock inclined his head slightly, conceding defeat. “No, I did not. Would have eventually though.”

“I did tell Harry about you by the way, she says ‘hi’,” John said.

“Knew it.”

“You definitely guessed,” John stated, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Sherlock rolled his eyes. They lapsed into comfortable silence, John resting his chin on his hand, Sherlock staring out at the surrounding buildings. 

“Want to play chess?” John asked after a couple of minutes, breaking the silence.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “You seriously think you could win-”

“Hey!” John sat back, crossing his arms in mock offense. “I'm not a sore loser, git, and maybe I'm a better player than you think.”

Sherlock snorted out a laugh at that, but proceeded to set up the pieces anyway. Black on his side, white on John’s. He placed each piece one by one, setting the cool ceramic figures down in their squares. John elected to pick them up a handful at a time and set them out from there. Messy.

Once the pieces were lined up neatly on both sides, Sherlock settled back and waited for John to make a move. He could form a strategy from there. John took a casual look at the board, and slid a pawn one space up. 

“Very original, John,” he quipped, moving his left knight out onto the field. 

“Prat.” They continued through a few moves in silence, Sherlock capturing two of John’s pawns as he moved his pieces around the board, easily taking the initiative. He shifted uncomfortably in the sling; of course it would itch exactly because he could not scratch it. Infuriating thing.

“I fractured my wrist once you know, but I imagine shoulder must be worse,” John said, nodding at the sling while he moved his knight towards Sherlock’s bishop.

“How did you fracture it?” 

“I, um, was racing someone along a narrow wall, and inevitably fell off. Not my finest moment,” John grimaced at the memory.

“Mhm. Adrenaline junkie?” Sherlock smirked, moving a pawn forward as bait. His rook was waiting to remove John’s knight if he fell for it.

“A bit,” John admitted. It once again struck Sherlock how ironic it was that John had ended up with a job as a store clerk. He must be almost as bored as I am.

“Ever get suspended?” he said curiously.

John predictably lost his other knight to Sherlock’s trap, but moved a bishop to capture his exposed rook. Unexpectedly good move. “No, actually, I somehow managed to keep a clean record,” the blonde said, smiling as he took the piece. “Did you?” 

“Yes, for informing a teacher of his complete incompetence in every aspect of the job,” he said, trying to sound offhand about it. If John was going to spend time with him, he should know exactly how rude Sherlock could be. As in, suspension-levels of rude.

John, however, merely rolled his eyes and smiled. “I can believe that.”

“It was actually a pretty great holiday from the imbeciles I had to see every day.”

“Not exactly a social butterfly then?” John asked. The premise was joking, but the boy actually looked interested. For some reason.

Sherlock returned the same mixture of sarcasm and curiosity, staring right back at John. What he really wanted to ask was, are you like me? Are you different too? Questions about school habits seemed as good a start as any. “Hardly. Are you?”

“I can fake it fairly well.” John said, advancing his rook three spaces. And then he winked. He bloody winked at me. Once again, Sherlock could feel his years of social defense mechanisms falling away like leaves in the wind, incinerated by one wink by John bloody Watson. Sherlock could feel himself blushing too, and he hoped furiously that John couldn't tell. 

A moment passed before he remembered the game, and he quickly moved his bishop forward without thinking about it. John grinned and captured it. If his strategy was to confuse Sherlock with flirtatious gestures, it was unfortunately working. Get it together.

He took a deep breath and tried to return to functionality, stepping back into their banter. “You can’t fake it that well, if your mannerisms with customers are any indication. Your smile was less believable than Mycroft’s diet,” he said, remembering his observation when he had seen John at the register. He moved a knight into position as well, one that he had actually thought about this time.

“God I know, it’s a surprise I ever managed to get that job, I’m pretty rubbish at pretending to be pleasant for hours on end,” John said, pulling a face. “Am I supposed to believe that you’re the Emmy winning authority on fake pleasantry though?”

“I can give that impression if I want to, yes,” Sherlock said. “I just almost never want to. It does tend to lead people to wrong conclusions about me.”

“Oh really? Let me see your fake smile then,” John laughed, crossing his arms once more over his chest. Sherlock rolled his eyes but complied, grinning on cue, following practiced motions that he had figured out how to manipulate years ago. It looked nothing like his actual smile, but it was convincing to strangers.

“Pretty good, I have to admit, maybe you are the ‘Emmy winning authority on pleasantry’,” John said thoughtfully. Then he smirked, adding “I much prefer your real smile though.” 

And just like that, Sherlock was once again thrown into a very particular kind of confusion that he was very close to naming the ‘John Watson Effect’. Symptoms included intense blushing, mental abstraction, smiling like a moron, and temporarily forgetting every learned behavior in your entire life. 

“How long has it been since you played chess?” John asked thoughtfully, examining his three captures lined up carefully on the edge of the board. Sherlock marshalled himself and pulled his head out of the clouds, with great difficulty, in order to answer.

“Ages, Mycroft is the only person who was ever interested in it,” he said, surprised by how long it had actually been. Must have been years, really. It was still fairly easy to make a game plan however, as his seven captures showed. He would win this. As long as John doesn’t wink again of course. Or smirk. Or do anything.

“Who's Mycroft?” John asked, moving his rook away from Sherlock’s threatening pawn.

Sherlock moved his knight back and towards John’s queen. “My rubbish older brother.”

“Of course you have a brother named ‘Mycroft’, of all things,” John said, dark eyes narrowed in suppressed laughter. Sherlock grinned, remembering his mother’s attempts to call his brother “Myc” earlier that morning.

“Better take that up with my parents, if they pay attention long enough.”

“No, your ridiculous name suits you,” John said.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the beautiful boy sitting in front of him, who was currently batting his eyelashes, the picture of innocence. Then he picked up his bishop and captured John’s queen.

“Shit,” John swore, watching his last powerful piece vanish off the board. 

“You do realize I’m literally beating you one-handed?” Sherlock said, grinning.

“Yes, thank you for pointing that out, genius,” John said, laughing as he moved his king to the left. Sherlock moved his queen into position.

“Check,” he declared, forcing John’s king to evade once again. “You’re just postponing the inevitable.”

“I didn’t pull you out of the ocean just to let you beat me in chess, you know.”

“Maybe you should have taken it into account.” 

“You know you what you said when I pulled you out?” John said, his dark eyes glinting slightly. “You said ‘I'm fine. Been worse’. Really.”

“Oh my god,” Sherlock covered his face with his one good hand at the memory, sighing as John giggled at how stupid it sounded in retrospect. “You remembered my exact words, I should applaud your recall.”

“Well how often do you hear someone claim they're fine after nearly drowning? Of course I remembered.”

“Checkmate,” Sherlock said, moving his queen to corner John’s king.

The sun had gone down while they played, and it was now dusk. Early night smudged everything around the edges, and it made Sherlock slightly less afraid that he would be caught staring at John Watson dopily. John started clearing all of the pieces away, tossing them back into the drawers with small clinking noises. Mycroft will be wondering where I am, Sherlock thought idly. That didn't bother him in the slightest. He hadn't felt this happy in months; all he cared about was that the beautiful golden haired boy in front of him looked just as pleased and relaxed as he did. And that was amazing. Unbelievable.

He yawned unexpectedly, blinking away sleep. Watching the sun go down had made him far more tired than he normally was, but he was brought wide awake by the fingertips lightly touching his arm. He started and blinked down at where John was tapping him with the lightest possible pressure; it was somehow sending lightning bolts off in Sherlock’s mind. 

“We should call it a night, you’re falling asleep,” John’s voice sounded as if it was from far away, but Sherlock struggled to drag his attention back to what he was saying.

“Um-right, of course-” he said. The hand touching his arm withdrew suddenly as John got up, leaving Sherlock feeling colder than before. No, put that back- 

“You ok?” John asked, smiling gently at him. The question was so simple, so genuine, that it calmed the storm of feelings raging inside his head and brought him back down to one point of focus. 

He smiled back, rising to join the shorter teenager by the door to the stairs. “Yes, I'm fine. Pretty good, actually.” 

John looked at him, softly, making Sherlock feel like he was melting slowly again. He hadn't known that you could look at anyone softly until he met John. He hadn't known a lot of things before this boy came into his life.

They went down the stairs quickly, not stopping to disturb Mrs. Hudson once they got down the ground floor. Sherlock opened the front door, holding it open for the John, and they both stepped out into the night. Sherlock hesitated a moment on the pavement, glancing down at John by his side. Please don’t let this be the last time I see you.

“Same time tomorrow?” John said, his grin clearly visible under the street light.

“I-yeah, same time tomorrow,” Sherlock said, feeling a swoop of happiness inside of him. Same time tomorrow.


End file.
